


Come Home to Me

by Asynca



Series: Ready, Set, Go! - Speed Prompts [33]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 20:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11744142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asynca/pseuds/Asynca
Summary: Facing the prospect of another omnic war, and Angela and Fareeha confront their budding feelings for each other in the limited time they have together.Speed prompt, written in 121 minutes.





	Come Home to Me

The first time they made love, it was rushed, clothed and desperate.

Angela had never wanted it to be like this, but then they never imagined they’d been in this situation: a new war looming on the horizon. No one trusted anyone, no one knew what their neighbours _really_ thought of omnics. No one knew who they could trust.

Angela remembered this. She remembered it well, from last time. It chilled her to the bone. She knew what came next.

The first shots were fired in Florida. It had always been a melting pot of humans and omnics, but tensions had flared at the last election when an omnic had won and the human candidates—bigots, all of them—had planted a seed in the public’s mind that the omnics had rigged the election by hacking it with their circuits somehow. Tensions had escalated, and last night, a mob of humans stormed the Omnic Welfare Society, ransacked the place and burnt it to the ground, and then stormed the house of the omnic politician, murdering him and his entire family.

A backlash was expected, a _big_ backlash. And there were so many people living on top of each other in Miami. It would be lethal.

With Russia not cooperating, the UN, forced to access any and all expertise in omnic warfare, had recommissioned Overwatch in less than 6 hours. And now here they were, dragged from their beds in the dead of the night, flying across the Atlantic Ocean in a 10-year-old ship towards somewhere that might be all of their graves.

None of them knew exactly what to expect—just what _could_ happen.

Seated side-by-side in the ship in their black lycra undersuits, Fareeha—‘Pharah’, really, since they were deployed—had looked across at Angela. She was no stranger to warfare, although her experience was relatively small-scale compared to what they might face when the landed.

“Tell me honestly,” she said quietly, “are we prepared for what we’ll find? I don’t remember what it was like.” She wouldn’t, Angela reflected, she was only two when the last war had ended. Angela had been seven.

She took a breath. To be frank, she couldn’t remember much. Her father pacing in the living room every night as he watched the news, and her mother crying in the bathroom with the shower running like she thought they wouldn’t hear her. The whirr of missiles, the _crunch_ as they hit buildings, and the rumble of heavy structures falling. The dust on her face and hands, and the bitter, acrid smell of smoke that never left her clothing. Her mother shaking her awake in the middle of the night, and how she’d been in the car before she’d been awake enough to rescue her bunny rabbit. She’d cried over Angel Ears in the car, worrying about what might happen to her. After that—well, maybe the memories were still in her head, but she couldn’t remember them. Mercifully, she couldn’t remember them. Only the aftermath.

She took a breath. “Is anyone really prepared for war?”

Fareeha pursed her lips, and then exhaled. She was quiet again for a time, staring at the knees of her suit. “You know, Mum made me promise I’d come home.”

That, Angela laughed once at.

Fareeha knew what she was thinking. “That’s what I told her: _I’ve_ come home from every battle. _She’s_ the one who’s more likely to disappear.”

Angela could imagine Ana’s reaction. “I bet she loved that.”

Fareeha gave her a rare cheeky smile. “Uh-huh. Luckily, I’m too tall now for her to cuff me across the ear.”

They both laughed a little—it eased the tension. It was so nice to just relax for a few seconds, given what was ahead of them.

After a moment when they both leant back in their seats, Fareeha sat forward again and reached across the distance between them for Angela’s hand. There was an intensity about her. “Come upstairs with me,” she said suddenly, in a wavering tone that sounded both nervous and full of conviction.

“Pardon?” Angela found herself asking. Was Fareeha suggesting they—?

Fareeha was less certain this time. “Please, come upstairs with me, just this once. Let’s be alone.”

Angela’s breath caught for a moment in her throat; she _was_ suggesting that. Of course she was—they might not get another chance. She didn’t say that, though. “What, no dinner first?” she joked instead, accepting Fareeha’s hand and undoing her seatbelt.

“What can I say,” Fareeha shot back, “I’m a cheapskate.”

Both blushing a little and dodging knowing glances from the others (they were at war, who cared?) Fareeha lead Angela up to the armoury, and closed the door behind her.

When there were in there, it took Fareeha a moment. She clenched and unclenched her fists a moment, thinking. “This isn’t what I imagined,” she said eventually. “Not at all. But we’ll be so busy when we land, maybe we won’t have time to—” She paused. “Well, to even catch our breaths.”

 _Or catch each other’s breaths_ , Angela thought, feeling her own were coming a little faster than usual. She knew what was coming next, and despite the war, her stomach fluttered a little when Fareeha stepped in towards her.

“I was going to be slow with you,” she said a little wistfully. “I had it all planned out—where I’d take you. What I’d say. I even wrote a song.”

 _That_ made Angela’s eyebrows rise. She looked up. “You wrote me a song?”

Fareeha jammed her eyes shut for a second. Her cheeks were a little pink. “It’s terrible,” she admitted. “It’s all clichés.”

Right at that moment, Angela quite liked the sound of clichés. “I’d like to hear it.”

“Then I hope I get the chance to play it to you…” Again, she took a breath, glancing up at Angela. “Can I…?” She let that sentence trail off.

Angela almost couldn’t look at Fareeha, but she forced herself to; to look up into those brown eyes. They were so warm, and so soft, just as her lips looked like they would be. She nodded.

Fareeha’s eyes dipped to Angela’s lips, and then she kissed them; hesitantly at first. It took her a few seconds to really commit to it. It was when Angela snaked her arms around Fareeha’s shoulders and opened Fareeha’s mouth with her own that they embraced properly—fully, and _that_ was how Angela had imagined it: the immediate _feeling_. The immediate connection. That part, Angela had imagined.

It was the smaller things she hadn’t: the little noises in Fareeha’s throat and the emotion that must have caused them. How, when Angela opened her eyes briefly, she could see Fareeha’s brow furrowed in concentration as she focused _so hard_ on kissing Angela. How well their bodies fit together in the black undersuits, and how easily Fareeha lifted her onto the bench so they could use their hands to explore each other.

Still, Angela wished it could be different. There wasn’t much flight time left, and they didn’t know if they’d be interrupted. They had to leave their suits on, touching each other desperately over them, limbs tangled and mouths on each other’s lips and neck, trying to get as close as possible anyway.

“I love you,” Fareeha had whispered, eyes heavy-lidded as Angela’s hand moved between her legs. “You don’t need to say anything, but I need to let you know I love you.”

Honestly? It took Angela a little longer to be able to say those words, but she’d be lying if she hadn’t thought about what it might be like. She’d seen Fareeha’s subtle gazing. She’d looked at Fareeha appreciatively, too—at those soft eyes and strong arms, and imagined them around her. She’d listened to Fareeha’s quiet guitar-playing from their separate rooms at HQ, imagining them singing duets together. This might be her last chance to say that, or anything like it.

She could feel her own warm breath against Fareeha’s skin as she spoke. “I’ve imagined what it would be like with you,” she said quietly, hoping it was enough. “After it’s over. Somewhere safe—what we might do together. I think about it when I’m trying to sleep at night. It helps.”

It must have been the right thing to say, because Angela felt Fareeha’s strong arms loop around her just like she’d imagined they would and hold her closer, Fareeha’s desperate mouth searching for hers. Angela let her find it, and let her have everything she could give her right then. She would have given her more—anything, honestly. If only they’d had enough time.

They didn’t, but they made love on the cold armoury table anyway, as the Overwatch ship descended toward the start of a long war. Kissing each other like each kiss was their last, hugging each other like each hug was their last. Trying to quickly memorise each other’s bodies with the hands in case they never felt one another again.

It was hard to step away from each other as the ship landed, and harder still to walk downstairs to where the others were to suit up.

Before they disembarked, fully armed, Fareeha turned to Angela. There were tears in her eyes—tears, and conviction. “I’ll come home to you,” she said. “Mark my words, I’ll come home to you.”

There was a knot in Angela’s own throat. “I’ll make sure you do,” she promised, and touched Fareeha’s forearm over the cool alloy of her armour.

As the door of the ship slowly opened, Angela heard the hum of distant crowds shouting, the crack of gun fire. Sirens, alarms. The sounds of chaos.

They were at war again—and none of them could come home until it was over.

 

 

 

 


End file.
